I was born in Russia but I grieve for Ukraine

At a recent work dinner, as conversation transitioned from casual talk to more intimate topics, someone asked about my family back in Russia.

What is it really like? How much does our media skew it? Are they safe? When was the last time you saw them? Why don’t they just leave?

The war in Ukraine has entered its second year and besides sharing my support for Ukraine, ways to donate, and updates around what’s happening, I’ve kept my family’s story quiet. It felt selfish to talk of Russian hardships with the atrocities happening in Ukraine.

Watching people’s reactions at the dinner table, something in me changed. The shock and sadness on their faces reflected emotions I’ve hidden for a year — aside from the occasional video call to those closest to me, or the “I need help” texts to best friends who flew to Colorado to peel me off the couch.

It made me realize that while my own story cannot compare to those of the people in Ukraine, it’s also one experienced by many people with loved ones in Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus. It is one of rage, helplessness, and devastation.

I emigrated to Long Island with my mom and brother in 1999, attending elementary, middle and high school in Levittown before getting my bachelor's degree at Hofstra University. My early childhood was spent in Latvia, but I was born and raised in Belgorod, Russia, a city that borders Kharkiv, Ukraine. My first visuals of the war were of tanks rolling through my city to attack a place and people I knew and loved, in a country where our extended family lives.

Having moved back to Belgorod to work remotely during the pandemic, my brother was now in a war zone, which made my world stop in its tracks. He heard the explosions, saw the military patrolling the streets. His apartment building’s windows were shattered by a bomb.

On that first day, I had my car packed for a move from Long Island to Colorado but I spent most of the day glued to the TV screen, debilitated by what I was watching. A few days and many tears later, I finally drove out to Denver.

Time stopped again last fall when Russian President Vladimir Putin announced the mobilization. My brother and many close friends fell into the age group on the chopping block for a war that’s using human bodies as ammunition. As those affected scrambled to escape Russia, I kept track of my brother as he took trains and overnight buses to flee to the European Union. In Philadelphia for a trade show, I rented a car and drove to Kennedy Airport to hug him when he finally made it back to America. 

The numbing fear for my brother’s life is a fear I do not wish on anyone. It does not compare to the hell the Ukrainian people have been enduring, but as a dear friend recently reminded me, it doesn’t always have to be about comparison. Sometimes, it just is.

My heart is broken into a million pieces for the people of Ukraine, but also for me and my family. I do not know when or if I will be able to hug my dad again, nor can I trust in the safety of other family members in Belarus and Ukraine.

How do you continue to push through life and work in the midst of trauma? Can you allow yourself brief moments of happiness when you forget the waves of pain? For me, I lock them away in a small box, with only a handful of those closest to me holding the key. But perhaps that’s not the best answer.